


Like A Fiddle

by Anonymous



Series: A Little Like [3]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon typical sexual creepiness, Foyet's canon obsession with Hotch, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Power Dynamics, Protective Team, flirting as an interrogation technique, referenced injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26310475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When Foyet is arrested as a witness to an unrelated crime, Hotch uses an unorthodox method to get him to talk.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & The BAU Team, George Foyet/Aaron Hotchner
Series: A Little Like [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910071
Comments: 54
Kudos: 137
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone following this series :) I hope you enjoy!

Hotch was on medical leave for thirty days.

It was less time than anyone but him considered adequate. It was less time than his team considered adequate. It had been his choice though, his decision, and he'd persuaded the doctors to sign his return to work and then all he had had to do was pass the pysch evaluation. He’d kept tabs on his team, unable to help but consult on a few difficult cases, because the alternative was to be bored out of his mind. Even with the files he'd taken home, the cases he was working on from afar, and even though he was regularly texting a serial killer, Hotch had missed being in the field. 

_you need your rest_

Foyet had been mocking— he was so very good at making each message read like a taunt— had practically preened at how badly he’d managed to hurt him. He'd taken every opportunity to remind Hotch of that. The intimate knowledge he’d had, of how it would hurt, how it would heal, had been unwelcome. Worse, it had been right. Foyet had made a good point, before, about their wounds being identical. But there was something he hadn’t been right about. Perhaps it had something to do with practise, or hands that had probably been unsteady from blood loss, but Foyet had been left with permanent damage. A hyperactive thyroid and a need for some seriously strong painkillers meant he'd be reliant on medication for the rest of his life. 

Hotch wasn’t.

There was no nine-month recovery. He'd needed painkillers, was still being prescribed them, but he wouldn't need them forever.

There was scar tissue, would always be scar tissue, vivid red lines slashed deep across his torso and arms, but Foyet had done a neater job on Hotch than he’d done on himself. And if Hotch had made it seem like he was recovering slower than he really was, well, the lie had its purpose. It had been an easy concession, to send something meaningless, something simple, even if he had known that Foyet would not be content with that for very long. Hotch had wanted to see if he’d keep his word, if Foyet was the type of killer to break a promise, but Shaunessy had not been a fluke. The trend held. Foyet stayed away. 

He was the sort of unsub who could wait ten years for a plan to pay off.

It was only when he was back at work, barely a week in, a week where he’d walked into a house with no vest and no backup, that he realised he was waiting. Perhaps he should have taken more time off, perhaps if he’d had then Foyet could be persuaded to stay away for longer, but Hotch had known he couldn’t put it off. There was an odd sense of security in knowing how to contact him, in knowing Foyet would contact him to boost, because it meant, in some way, Hotch knew where he was. He hadn't become a ghost, a nightmare that could attack at any time with no warning, and having the ability to tempt an attack felt a little like power. It was probably reckless, probably ill advised, but Hotch found he didn't care. It would have been safer to keep Foyet in the background and out of the way, to either take a longer period of leave or to delete his number, but Hotch wanted to draw him out and he wanted to draw him out quickly. _Catch_ him quickly. 

He’d been right, before, when he’d predicted what would happen. He’d been right when he’d said that Foyet would interfere in an active case but—

Hotch had never thought Foyet would let himself get arrested.

It’s an unrelated situation, a _fluke_ ; he’d been picked up by the local police in New York, police who hadn’t even known who he was at first, because they caught him too close to a crime scene. A crime scene that obviously isn’t his. A crime scene for a local case involving several dead men, one still missing. And oh, it was a smart plan, a well thought out plan, and Hotch hated how it made things complicated.

__Foyet was, of all things, a witness._ _

__And he was using it as leverage._ _

__It was the only reason Foyet was sat in a cell in New York rather than being shipped off to another high security prison. It was the only reason why, when they’d gotten the call, late at night, his first feeling hadn’t been relief. This should have meant his family could be _safe_. It should mean that this entire situation with Foyet, the messages and taunts and threats, could end. Of all the times for him to trip up, of all the potential probabilities and scenarios, this was definitely the least likely. It was obvious something was wrong. Everyone knew it—had known it right from when they’d sat down and found out where they were going. His team were the best._ _

__It didn’t take the best to figure this out._ _

__But Hotch also knew something his team didn’t, something the police didn’t—_ _

__Foyet had been texting him right before he got caught._ _

_time for round two kitten_

__There was no way, absolutely no way, that Foyet had been caught by accident. And there was no way he’d let himself be caught if he didn’t have a way out. They’d taken the case, had to take the case, and Foyet hadn’t said a word when they’d arrived. It had been jarring at first to see him in person; for a moment all Hotch could think about was being pinned on his back, a weight on his legs, the pain of a knife, feeling so very helpless, but the moment had passed. Foyet had sat in his cell and grinned smugly, relaxed and unconcerned, and ignored every attempt Morgan had made to interrogate him. He’d stared at the glass, lips quirked, and said nothing. The victim had now been missing for eight hours. They were running out of time._ _

__Which is how Hotch had ended up at the opposite end of a table in a cell with Foyet, conducting an interrogation regarding a crime they both knew Foyet didn’t care about in the slightest._ _

__— “I don’t want you going in there, Aaron.” Rossi had said in that stern voice he used when he was worried. “It should be one of us.”_ _

__“Morgan already tried,” Hotch had pointed out. “the only way he’s going to talk is if I go in there. And we all know it.”_ _

__“No, you don’t need to put yourself through this.”_ _

__It was obvious what angle Hotch was going to choose to work with Foyet. Rossi wouldn’t be a profiler worthy of prize-winning books if he hadn’t realised that._ _

__“He’s fixated on me. JJ and Prentiss have flirted with suspects before, made themselves vulnerable. We’ve all pretended to be in a weaker position than we are—it’s a familiar play.” Hotch had replied calmly. He’d been glad Morgan wasn’t there, glad he was off examining the bodies with Reid, because, as acting Unit Chief, he actually had the authority to overrule him._ _

__“Flirted, yes, but we don’t ask victims to seduce their attackers.” It was Prentiss, this time, and she hadn’t flinched when he’d turned his stony gaze on her. She was probably one of the only people who could get away with saying something as bold as that.—_ _

__It was inconvenient to be worried about, disruptive no matter how nice it felt._ _

__Hotch had needed a moment to consider his play—used that moment to take a deep breath and close his eyes while he was unobserved—and realised that he knew a disturbing amount about what Foyet liked._ _

__It had been a very long time since he had last had to _flirt_ with a suspect._ _

__He’d forced himself not to think about the fact his two members of his team were going to watch him do it._ _

__He’d taken off his suit jacket before he’d entered, rolled up his sleeves a little, and ignored Rossi’s tense demeanour as he subtly changed how he was dressed. Was it really any different to those times the women on his team had done the same? Hotch had no right to do any less than that, when it was required. He had no right to stand back and let them make that choice, if he wasn’t prepared to make that play himself. He wasn’t laying in a hospital bed, stitched together and drugged, weak and defenceless, surprised by Foyet appearing in his room with flowers._ _

__This time, he was prepared._ _

__He’d only rolled his sleeves up high enough to give the slightest hint of the scars on his arms—the barest little tease—loosened his tie enough to pop the top button of his collar. It had the added effect of highlighting the bite on his neck, sat too high to be covered by his shirt. It had been a long time before he could control his startle at the sight it in the mirror. It would take even longer to ignore eyes straying to it, his team, officers on cases, barista’s when he bought coffee, families of victims. Foyet had been right. He saw a different image of himself reflected in their eyes._ _

__None of that mattered now. The mark was already impossible to hide, vivid, but he needed to take it further, flaunt it._ _

__So, Hotch sat down and angled himself so that his neck tilted to show it off. Embarrassment threatened to bubble up at that, an inconvenient feeling, but he shoved it aside for later. And perhaps it was all a little heavy handed, too obvious for someone as skilled as Foyet, but it would entice him enough to give Hotch an opening._ _

__An opening was all Hotch ever needed._ _

__Now who’s trying to establish intimacy? It was a sardonic thought._ _

__But it was working. Foyet’s gaze had caught on his neck the moment he’d entered the room, lips parting slightly in surprise. He couldn’t help himself, he kept staring, practically drinking him in like he didn’t know where to look. He didn’t speak, didn’t comment on it, just watched with smug eyes and an even smugger smile. It was easy to match, easy to take that silence as a cue and run with it, because interrogating a suspect was an old skill. It had its roots back when he’d been prosecutor. He knew how to work an angle._ _

__Hotch had been in there five minutes and hadn’t said a word, reading through a case file he’d memorised on the plane._ _

__Foyet’s chuckled. “Alright Aaron, you got me, I’ll talk first. You know, I’ve been wondering how you’re dealing with your demotion.”_ _

__Hotch looked up as if he had forgotten he was there._ _

__It was an interesting opener. Meant to provoke him, meant to gauge how it had hurt him. For a moment he wondered how he’d found out, why he hadn't messaged a taunt, and realised that he must have been saving this for when they met in person. He’d wanted the pleasure of a live reaction. But Foyet didn’t know it had been Hotch’s idea. He didn’t know that Hotch had realised that Strauss would use this against him, especially given how he was texting a serial killer, and he had needed to act quickly. Quicker than he had wanted to. That was good. Now was a good time to plant a seed._ _

__“Enjoying the decrease in paperwork,” Hotch replied, calm as always, but he purposefully hesitated, hitched his tone. It sounded bitter to his own ears. Excellent. He moved on before Foyet could comment, changing the subject as if it made him uncomfortable. “I already know that this isn’t one of your kills.”_ _

__There was a hint of interest in Foyet’s smug exterior, a slightly triumphant quirk of the lips, but he didn’t comment. He let the subject drop the same way Hotch did. It was surprising but Hotch didn’t doubt he’d be hearing about it later._ _

__“You never know,” Foyet couldn’t move much in the cuffs, but he used the couple of inches of slack to wave his hands dismissively. “I could have wanted to try something new.”_ _

__Hotch was unimpressed. “It’s not how you’d do it.”_ _

__“It’s not?”_ _

__“No.”_ _

__“How so?” Foyet leant forward, expression one of exaggerated interest._ _

__“You wouldn’t shoot a victim from behind.” Hotch replied, glancing down at the crime scene photos in his hand. “Perhaps you’d make them kneel, but execution style is too impersonal. This is organised, I grant that, but it’s quick and easy. Too easy. You wouldn’t be able to enjoy it.”_ _

__“The way I enjoyed you?”_ _

__Hotch’s pause was calculated. “The way you enjoy all your kills.”_ _

__Foyet made a show of reluctant agreement, but he was smiling. He was at ease. “You always have an answer, don’t you? You’re right, by the way, this isn’t one of mine.”_ _

__“But you saw who did it.”_ _

__“I did.” Foyet said with relish. “I very much did. And I knew they’d call you.”_ _

__“Is that why you let yourself get arrested?”_ _

__“Is it so hard to believe that I was distracted?” Foyet grinned. “I was texting when they caught me.”_ _

__Hotch knew the answer to this. But his team didn’t. He hadn’t told them about the text. And they wouldn’t appreciate him keeping them in the dark. He asked the question anyway. “Who were you texting?”_ _

__Foyet’s eyes flicked to the glass behind him. He played it uncharacteristically coy. “Who do you think?”_ _

__There was mockery in there. A false respect for his privacy. It made very little difference to what he said next._ _

__“You were texting me.”_ _

__“Shh,” Foyet glanced around conspiratorially. “I thought we were keeping that a secret.”_ _

__“Why?” Hotch asked casually, raising a brow, tilting his head even more. Foyet’s gaze snapped to his throat and didn’t leave it. “you think I’m embarrassed?”_ _

__Foyet paused. His expression turned thoughtful. “If you’re not maybe I should try harder.”_ _

__“I think you’ll find that difficult.” Hotch said dryly. By this point in his career, Hotch has heard every vile thing an unsub can come up with. The whole team has._ _

__“I do love a challenge.” Foyet winked._ _

__Hotch forced himself to look down at the file, shuffled pages like he was avoiding Foyet’s eyes, and changed the subject. “Tell me about the shooting.”_ _

__“What do you want to know?”_ _

__Hotch set the file down, left it open, photos piled together on top of pages of notes. He’d fanned them out a bit, little visible suggestions of the crime scenes. It always made him feel a little ill using the dead in this way— but he’d picked them specifically, no faces were visible. There was only blood. The man in them was tall and dark haired. Purposefully chosen._ _

__“I want,” Hotch paused tactically. “to know what you saw. Describe the perpetrator.”_ _

__“And what do I get if I do?”_ _

__Hotch smiled. “Prison. The same thing you get if you don’t.”_ _

__“Sounds like there’s nothing in it for me.”_ _

__“I think you got a little bored with just texting,” Hotch replied. I’m here for you, Foyet had said in the hospital. “I think you wanted something a little bit more thrilling.”_ _

__“You were being very coy,” Foyet replied with a small shrug. “though I did also promise you’d never see me coming. Did you see this coming, agent?”_ _

__“I knew you’d interfere in a case.” Hotch admitted. “But letting yourself get arrested? Should I be flattered?”_ _

__“Perhaps I just wanted to see how well you were healing.” Foyet laughed. “You look good by the way—if a little underdressed. This strip show for me?”_ _

__Hotch leant back in his chair. “You’ve seen me in less.”_ _

__“Mhm, I have.” Foyet reached for the file and grinned when Hotch didn’t stop him. There was nothing in there Hotch didn’t want him to see. “Eight dead? This guy’s still got training wheels on.”_ _

__“Describe the man to me.”_ _

__Foyet was looking at the photos. “Tall, a little shorter than you. I’d guess around six foot. Thin too—probably similar build to your friend Doctor Reid— but strong, strong enough to subdue your missing victim. You were right, just so you know, I wouldn’t shoot someone from behind. But I would make them kneel.”_ _

__There was an uncomfortable weight on that last statement. Hotch looked up at Foyet through his lashes and said, “The missing victim?”_ _

__“Put in the back of a car.” Foyet paused for a moment, eyes on him, oddly enraptured, then shrugged. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, you_ flirt_.”

“What kind of car?”

“Don’t remember.” Foyet was not going to let him get away with avoidance like that. “Might need you to help remind me.”

“This happened last night.” Hotch deliberately missed the point.

“I know, so let’s talk about what I want in return for what I know.” Foyet’s tone was mild, his eyes anything but. “You don’t walk in here half dressed, looking like that, without being willing to make a couple of concessions. So. How are the scars on your arms?”

Hotch didn’t want to do it, but then he remembered JJ letting an unsub sniff her hair, Reid staring down Hankel, and Morgan, confronting Carl Buford. He remembered what the whole point of this interrogation was. Hotch didn’t hesitate, leaning forward, placing his left arm on the table and slowly twisting it to expose his forearm. 

“Good boy,” Foyet was close enough to touch, despite being cuffed, and he traced his thumb along the edge of Hotch’s shirt sleeve. “roll that up a little more. I want to see it properly.”

“Tell me about the car first.”

“How about you ask me nicely.”

“Please.” Hotch said easily. “Tell me about the car.”

They stared at each other for a moment, neither blinking, neither of them backing down, before Foyet hummed thoughtfully. “Large, smaller than a van though. It looked black, but it was night, so dark I could barely see, so it could have been a navy blue. Got a good look at the license plate though.”

“Do you remember it?”

Foyet nodded his head towards his arm, raising a brow.

Hotch slipped his fingers under his shirt sleeve and tugged it up. It was a conscious effort to keep the fingers of his other hand relaxed, turned up as they were, and not curl them inwards. He wanted to clench that hand into a fist. He wanted to punch Foyet in his arrogant face. The urge went to the back of his mind, where he had shoved his embarrassment, to be dealt with later. Always for later. It was easy to control his flinch when Foyet thumbed at the scar. Easy to ignore his little chuckle, the pleased grin on his face as he commented on how neatly it had healed.

But he was too controlled, too calm—he had to give Foyet _something_.

So he broke eye contact, decided he was going to keep building that up as a tell, and looked away. For a moment he thought about his team again, of Rossi and Prentiss, watching this, but he shoved that thought away too. No distractions.

“You know, you’re being awfully compliant today.” Foyet said casually, trailing his fingers down his arm. The skin there was sensitive, the vulnerability of an upturned wrist, and Foyet was bold as he touched him, almost suggestive, fingertips lingering brazenly as he took his time. He stopped at his hand, playing idly with the finger where his wedding ring had been, and laughed when Hotch couldn’t help but pull a little at his grip. “ _There_ we go, I appreciate the effort though, you’re trying so hard to be good for me.”

“The license plate.”

Hotch knew that as soon as he got that information, he wouldn’t need Foyet anymore. It could be the end of this. They could figure out his endgame, keep him trapped here, cut off whatever his plan was and send him to prison. Hotch had won, had goaded him the way he’d planned to, and this should have made him feel relief. His gut told him otherwise, thought back to the text, thought how smug he was acting now, thought that Foyet was anything but an idiot, and knew that it was not going to be that easy.

He wanted it to be that easy.

“Come closer, I’ll whisper it to you.”

Hotch forced himself not to think as he leant forward—the same way JJ had forced herself not to think— and felt Foyet come close to his ear. There was a pause, the moment stretched a beat too long, before Foyet whispered “I bet I can guess what you like in bed.”

Hotch leant back with an annoyed sigh, pulling his arm from Foyet’s grip, and his expression was icy, unimpressed, as the Reaper laughed.

“The license plate.” Was all he said.

Foyet was not content with such a subdued reaction. “I bet you’re real vanilla, couldn’t be anything else, not too old to learn though. You ever experimented a little?”

Hotch was not going to answer that. 

Instead, he took a moment to consider if this was worth it. Was Foyet lying about what he saw? Should he just cut him loose and throw him into the nearest high security prison? Instinct told him he knew more than he was saying. Instinct told him to play along a little more, to tease a little, then threaten if needed, then push a little harder. Hotch reordered the file he had brought, flipped it closed and pushed it aside; affecting bored disinterest the way his expression lent itself to so well. He angled himself carefully, leant forward on the table, rested his elbows on it casually, knowing how good he looked in just his shirt.

“How about I tell you what you like instead?”

Foyet’s eyebrow’s shot up in surprise. He’d been goading for a very different reaction.

“We both know you’re not impotent.” Hotch began, eyes piercing. “Though some of your previous partners would have assumed so, with the way you only get off on violence. An authentic BDSM relationship could make even you look vanilla, but you could never engage in one because you value absolute control, the thrill of it, over your partners comfort. I don’t think you like restraints; you prefer to subdue without aid, it makes you feel strong to hold someone down. At the most you’d use handcuffs, and I know this because you’ve suggested using them on me. Sexual sadists get off on the pain of their victims—you’ve already said you’d get them to kneel, so I think you like humiliation too—I think you like to make your partners cry.”

Foyet was grinning at him with delighted disbelief.

“So. The license plate.”

Foyet gave him the first half of it, then paused. “Keep talking.”

It was really no different than delivering a profile, even if the language Hotch was using was a little more provocative. Even if he was pitching his voice a little lower.

“The biting goes without saying,” he continued, running his fingers over the scar on his neck without breaking eye contact. “so you like to leave marks. Preferably visible ones. Maybe you like to choke them. You’re possessive. You like them to fight back though, just a little, because it makes it feel so much better when they submit. You’re strong enough to force that, I know you must have carried me from my apartment, and you like showing that off. You like them responsive, loud, but it’s about power. You don’t care if they’re enjoying themselves, but you like hearing them beg.”

Foyet’s disbelief had faded, surprise banked, but his smile was sly. “I didn’t know you were paying such attention to me, Aaron.”

“I’m a profiler, Foyet.” Hotch deadpanned. “Now. The license plate?”

“Since you’ve proven to be surprisingly proficient at dirty talk, I think you’ve earnt it.” Foyet replied.

Hotch raised a brow when Foyet chose to pause. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you. I just know that you’re going to walk out of here as soon as I do and, well, I’m enjoying our little chat. Turn your head a little more for me, will ya? The view’s nice, but it could be better.”

Hotch didn’t move. “The plate first.”

“Oh no, Aaron, I’ve got the leverage here.”

Unsubs always thought that. They considered their victims easy to manipulate and never considered a profiler could see them the same way. Foyet was, in many ways, an open book.

Not a particularly enjoyable read, but an easy one.

Hotch flicked his eyes to the side—his created tell of feeling _flustered_ —reached forward, placed his hand in Foyet’s reach, and said “We both know you’re strong enough to stop me leaving if I don’t follow through. I’d guess you’d have enough time to do some damage before anyone outside could stop you.”

Foyet took the bait.

He took careful hold of Hotch’s wrist, encircling it with his fingers but not squeezing. It was a proprietary touch. Possessive. It was reminiscent of the hospital, of things he’d rather not think about, because Foyet wasn't trying to hurt him. No, Foyet wasn't trying to hurt him at all. Hotch allowed it without complaint. It had been his idea, after all. And, no matter what he'd said, Hotch most certainly was the stronger of the two. He most certainly was able to overpower him.

“Of course, you’d risk something like this,” Foyet murmured, low and pleased. “I wonder what your team think of you now? I know they’re watching. Did they comment on the bite? I bet even if they didn’t you could read every nasty little thought they tried to hide.”

Hotch pointedly said nothing.

Foyet laughed but reeled off the remaining numbers of the license plate with no further complaints.

As soon as he was done, Hotch half stood up, because Foyet had been getting his way for far too long, and Hotch was kind of an asshole, smirking viciously when Foyet yanked him back down. He resisted for a moment before he let himself be pulled back into his seat, just so that Foyet knew who had the power here. Just so Foyet knew that he had moved because Hotch had allowed himself to be moved. “I’m not _that_ easy.”

“Oh, I think I know just how easy you are.”

Hotch kept him waiting for a moment, then twisted his head to the side and ignored the way Foyet’s stare made his skin prickle with unease. It went against his instincts to have him out of sight. But his team were there, and maybe they were watching something he’d rather they wouldn’t, but they’d keep him safe. They’d intervene if anything went wrong. They’d seen this go on, trusted him to handle it, and he could trust them in return. He could trust them to know if it was going too far.

“I like how it looks on you.” Foyet said. 

“We’re done here.” Hotch pulled his hand back, but Foyet wouldn't let him go.

“You don’t believe that.” Foyet said with sudden seriousness. “Do you think I wouldn’t notice? You’re so worried you haven’t even asked; you haven’t even tried to get me to tell you how I’m going to do it.”

"It's not important." He wasn't going to let Foyet use this to mock him, wasn't going to let himself be drawn in. There was a flicker of annoyance in Foyet's expression, a minute change, because oh how he'd wanted him to ask. Hotch smirked. "Going to bruise my wrist again if I say something you don't like?"

"Maybe this time I'll break it."

“No, you won't. Let go of me. Now.” Hotch said.

Foyet let his wrist go, but caught his hand by his fingers, pressing a mocking kiss to his knuckles. “Till next time, sweetheart.”

Hotch stood up as soon as Foyet let him go. He didn’t feel relief. He knew, with a certainty that shocked him, with the same instinct that made him a damn good profiler, that Foyet was going to escape. He would not have let himself get caught otherwise. It didn’t feel right, so opposed with the fact that Foyet was literally in handcuffs right in front of him, but there was no way this was over. Foyet was literally dangling the chance to see Haley and Jack again right in front of his nose. This was a _taunt_.

He wanted to stay, keep eyes on him until he was put in prison for good, but he knew that he couldn’t. Because they had a victim to find. And that was more important. The victims were always more important.

He ignored the part of his mind that said that he was a victim too.

“Enjoy prison.” He said as he left.

“Don’t count on it, lover.” Foyet called as he closed the door.

It was difficult to face looking his team in the eye, even if it was just Prentiss waiting for him, but Hotch unrolled his sleeves and replaced his jacket with all the relaxed speed of someone unruffled by what he had just done.

“Hotch—”

“Any news on that plate?”

Prentiss frowned, displeased with the deflection. “Waiting on Garcia now. Do you need to talk?”

“No.” Hotch replied dispassionately, fixing his cuffs. 

"That couldn’t have been easy for you.” Prentiss had a way of swinging from hard to soft—her compassion a changeable state. It had a way of knocking someone off balance. Hotch had always admired her for it.

“It was no harder than anything else we do daily.” He replied. 

“That’s not an answer.”

No, it wasn’t. “Where’s Dave?”

“Glaring at a wall.” Prentiss replied without missing a beat. “Look, I know you’re not ok. We don’t have to talk about it now but, Hotch, I’m here for you. We all are. Don’t shut us out. You didn’t tell us about the text—don’t you trust us?”

“I trust you all completely.” Hotch said without hesitation. “But I—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Prentiss took pity on him after a moment. “Ok, but you’ve got to talk to someone about this. Especially now.”

It was exactly what Morgan had said. He couldn’t look at her for a moment. “We need to make sure he doesn’t escape this time.”

Prentiss nodded. “Foyet’s task force is making the arrangements. Everything we can get on such short notice.”

“He’s going to escape.” Hotch didn’t know what made him voice his fear. He didn’t know why he allowed himself to sound so resigned.

Prentiss laid a hand on his arm, telegraphing her movement with practised ease, going so very carefully, but he flinched anyway. Her eyes tightened. “He won’t.”

Hotch shook his head, then frowned. “There’s something off about this whole case. Something he said—I can’t quite—”

Prentiss nodded. “You think he’s hiding something.”

“He’s always hiding something.” Hotch replied wryly.

Prentiss rolled her eyes, but smiled. “Well, tell me when you figure it out.”

“Will do.” 

“Hotch—” Prentiss was cut off by her phone ringing. “Hold on it’s Garcia. Hello? Ok. Slow down, receptions a little patchy, what—”

She left the room, giving him a stern look that told him to stay put. 

Hotch turned back to the one-way mirror, trying to puzzle out what had struck him so. Foyet appeared as relaxed as he had when they had first arrived. But that wasn’t it. It wasn’t just how easy this had all been. It wasn’t just that Foyet was going to escape, that he’d planned this all somehow. No, he’d made that glaringly obvious. Been arrogant almost to exaggeration. There was something else.

Something—

“Ok we’ve got an address.”

Hotch paused and hated himself for it.

Prentiss saw his hesitation but surprised him with a fond, understanding, smile. “Morgan wants one of us to stay here.”

There was an offer there, a question. Can you handle it?

Hotch smirked back. “Does he?”

Prentiss nodded, walked closer, laid her hand on his arm again. And just like that she was Emily, concerned and kind, no longer thinking with the title ‘agent’. Her voice was soft. “It doesn’t have to be you, Hotch.”

He smiled back ruefully. “It does.”


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sigh* This took way too long! Had it 90% written and then decided to rewrite it about three times. Ended up going back to what I wrote originally and making a few changes. Sorry for the delay! Been looking at this so long I just need to post it.

*

“You’re frowning.” 

Hotch turned to Reid, frown still very much in place, and said. “So are you.”

Reid smiled a little, then sobered. “Something’s not right.”

It was just the two of them, the rest of the team had only just left and JJ was preparing a statement for the media. It should have felt like a routine day, standard procedure for closing a case, but the worry curling in his gut was anything but standard. This wasn’t the usual adrenaline hit of sending his team into danger. This was—

Could it be something Foyet had brought with him?

He’d been searched already. All he’d had on him had been a couple of knives, a gun, his phone, and a few bottles of medication. It was exactly what Hotch had expected the cops to find. It was hard not to wonder if, perhaps, they’d missed something. It was no judgement on their abilities, though Hotch knew it often looked that way when his team swooped in and solved a case, but it was a possibility. Foyet would have known he’d be searched. He’d have been prepared for it. Hotch had a feeling, deep in his gut, that there was something important in what Foyet had said, or what he hadn’t said. No, not something important. Something essential. 

“Run me through what we know.” Hotch said quietly.

“Eight victims, one abducted eight and a half hours ago.” Reid began. “No obvious link between them, aside from them all being men, and they were all killed with a single shot to the back of the head. The geological profile showed an unusually even spread of kills but the address we found fits where we’d postulated the unsub would live—”

Hotch found himself frowning even more as he listened, unable to figure out exactly what was bothering him, finding his eyes straying to the glass once more. Foyet was too at ease for the risk he had taken. He’d thought this through, had to have predicted and planned meticulously, but how had he controlled for variables? Either he’d known exactly how this would go, or he had a plan that would work regardless. This was all wrong.

“You’re going to talk to him again.” Reid said suddenly, noticing Hotch’s wandering attention, perceptive in that quiet way he could be.

Hotch nodded. “He wants something out of this, something he hasn't had yet.”

His instinct was confirmed a moment later when Foyet, who had supposedly told them all he knew, looked straight at the glass, grinned, and said.

“I’d like a cup of coffee.”

There was a moment of silence in the observation room.

Hotch met Reid’s eyes steadily. “Reid. Go check on JJ.”

Reid hesitated before he replied, eyes slightly wide, that hint of steel so often missed by others rising to the surface. “Hotch—”

_“Go.”_

Reid frowned, pausing long enough to give Hotch a searching look, before he nodded. He stood, wobbled as he grabbed for his crutches. “If you’re not out in ten minutes...”

Hotch smiled a little. “I understand.”

Reid didn’t seem offended by how he’d snapped, leaving without another word, giving Hotch a small smile as he passed him. He'd still apologise later. He'd been harsh, but there might not be time for explanations. For disagreement. Hotch didn’t know what timetable Foyet was working to.

What he did know was that Foyet wanted him back in that room.

He’d expected him to come back sooner, Hotch realised suddenly, a cold dread setting in. Foyet was still grinning, eyebrows raised, the taunt of a gauntlet thrown down, and Hotch knew that he was imagining him standing here behind the glass. 

But he was also getting impatient.

Impatient enough to ask for coffee. He wasn’t enjoying being left without the chance to engage.

Good to know.

This couldn’t be the interrogation Foyet so obviously wanted. No. Foyet was goading for that now, had been willing to be bartered with and flirted with. Foyet had enjoyed Hotch’s coy attention, practically preened under it, encouraged it— taken advantage of what he could do with it— all because it had been what he had been expecting. It had been what he was goading for, the only reason he’d interfere in a case so meaningless to him. Hotch had made that play because he’d known it would be irresistible.

This needed to be done differently.

It was hard to figure out how when he didn’t know what was missing. Hard, but not impossible; because while he may not be nearly as good at poker as Reid, Hotch knew that he already had everything he needed to piece this together. He just needed to Foyet to make a mistake.

A single, tiny, mistake. 

Hotch made his decision, pulled on a pair of gloves before he re-entered Foyet’s cell, knew he could use a search as a reason for going back in. It wasn't his primary goal, but pretending it was meant he didn't have to lie. Hotch remembered how frustrated Foyet had been when he hadn't asked how he was going to escape, that split second of anger. It was what he wanted him to do, what he must have planned for him to do, and so it was an easy button to push. Hotch wouldn't ask. He didn’t take off his suit jacket this time. Foyet was expecting that, wanted it, and would have been overjoyed at Hotch being forced to come back with the same play. Would love to see him admit he had missed something. He wanted this to escalate, wanted more power and control. Hotch couldn’t walk in there looking like he wanted something. 

Foyet needed to be _tricked_.

Hotch needed to cheat.

He crossed over to him briskly, unlocked the handcuffs from the table but left them around his wrists. Hotch wasn’t an idiot.

“Stand up.”

Foyet’s eyes raked over him. “Back in your suit?”

Hotch’s face remained expressionless. 

“Shame.” Foyet said when he didn’t speak, smirking up at him, but his eyes were curious. His tone was goading. “I was hoping for less clothes this time.”

“I’m sure you were.” Hotch said smoothly, refusing to be drawn in. “Now stand up.”

But Foyet wasn’t content with that; he wanted to gloat, wanted this to follow whatever he had planned, and he didn’t like being foiled. So, he pushed, the way he always did. He filled the silence, spoke when Hotch stayed quiet, unable to help himself. “If you’ve got more questions, showing a little more skin might sweeten things up a little. You didn’t even bring me any coffee.”

“Stand. Up.” Hotch repeated, his tone that of someone who expected to be obeyed first time.

There was something gleeful in Foyet's expression as he looked at him, a hint of triumph tugging the corners of his mouth into a smile. Beneath that, the danger, the constant cold calculation that made dealing with Foyet so chilling. He paused, laughed a little when Hotch took another step towards him, but stood. “Thought you’d be off chasing your ‘unsub’ by now, that license plate not pan out?”

It was a moot point. 

There was no way Foyet wouldn’t have known Hotch would stay behind. So why bring up the case at all? Because, while Foyet didn’t care about it at all, he knew that _Hotch_ did. 

Hotch didn’t acknowledge it. “I’m going to search you. Please place your hands on you head.”

“Don’t trust the cops to have done a thorough enough job?”

Hotch ignored the question. The misconception served his purpose. “Hands on your head. Now.”

Foyet winked. “Alright sweetheart.”

He did it slowly, mockingly, the cuffs clinking against each other as he placed his hands behind his head. Foyet raised a brow, smug despite being a few inches shorter, grinning as if to say ‘well?’. He was arrogant, overconfident. Good. More likely to slip up. More likely to give something away, a little hint, if only to try and drawn Hotch into playing his game. He’d been doing it already, ever since Hotch had entered the room, and if he could encourage it, feed that need for attention, he knew that he’d eventually get his answer. 

Because a hint was all he’d need.

“I’m sure you’ve already been told your rights.” Hotch said calmly, almost bored. It wasn’t even an act. Performing a search on a suspect was habitual, almost instinctive. Though he’d never done one on someone who had put him in the hospital barely a month before. “If you have any weapons on you, I’d prefer it if you told me now, because I will find them.”

“Aren’t you supposed to have another agent present when searching a suspect?” Foyet asked instead.

“Wouldn’t you rather have me all alone?” Hotch replied.

Foyet laughed. 

Hotch had known he would enjoy this. 

It would be the first time Hotch had initiated, come so close, willingly touched him. That was always going to please Foyet. Stroke his ego. He wanted him to be uncomfortable, wanted him to feel on edge, but this was so habitual as to be something he could do in his sleep. Hotch was methodical; he searched the length of Foyet’s arms mechanically, training and experience taking over, he skimmed the inside of Foyet’s jacket, checked the lining, used the backs of his hands when checking his torso and the inside of his waistband. It was within protocol, quick, completely professional, and he told him where he’d be touching him before he did. Compared to everything else he had done today, compared with playing at flirting, adapting to what Foyet liked, this was actually the part he was most comfortable with. It was easy to ignore Foyet’s smirk.

“I know you want something.” Foyet said suddenly. “I know you want it badly enough to sacrifice your nice, safe, careful distance.”

“You told me everything I needed to know.” Hotch said and left it at that.

He could be patient. Even when it felt like time was running out Hotch could be patient. Foyet could too. He could wait ten years. But he also wanted to be acknowledged, for someone to know his victory—to gloat and feel powerful—and Hotch knew he could give him that. He knew he could use that. Even if that meant he needed to escalate. Even if that meant he had to start sacrificing his comfort.

So he crouched down, one knee on the floor.

It put him at a distinct disadvantage. But the pose was more symbolically suggestive than anything else. And Foyet could be all about symbolism—the eye of providence painted on a wall in blood—this would be irresistible to him. So Hotch kept himself relaxed, continued his methodical search, but he was alert for any move Foyet might make. Any move Hotch was goading him to make. He was unsurprised when he didn’t find anything, but Hotch had never seriously believed it would be that easy. His excuse to be in the cell had run out though, and Foyet would either take the bait or—

Hotch heard the chink of metal, felt Foyet’s hand settle on his shoulder. The tense was a reflex. It was one he didn’t try and suppress. 

_Aha_. He was surprised it had taken Foyet this long to touch him.

Foyet chuckled. 

“How about you stay down there while we talk, hmm?”

Hotch fought the urge to sigh but didn’t try to keep the irritation from his tone when he looked up. “Hands back on your head.”

It was the first time he’d looked up since he’d knelt on the floor. He knew just how he must look from this angle.

Foyet’s expression was exuberant. “How brave you were, coming in here alone, making yourself so vulnerable to me. Your team been gone long?”

It was a vulnerable position. But not as vulnerable as it could be. So Hotch looked Foyet dead in the eyes as he relaxed from his crouch, put his other knee on the ground, falling out of the stance that had been just adjacent to protocol, into one that really, really wasn’t. It was probably the most blatant thing he had done, so much more than a bit of light flirtation, something that would probably embarrass him if he started thinking too much about it. Foyet didn’t act fast enough to hide his surprise; he had not expected Hotch to challenge his taunt, to do a little goading of his own. Yes, Foyet was right. Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t have come in alone at all, shouldn’t even be carrying out a search this way, should have stood behind Foyet, but Hotch hadn’t been aiming to follow the book when he’d walked in here.

When he’d sent Reid away.

“I’m not the one who’s vulnerable.” Hotch replied coldly. “And my team are not your concern.”

Though it was interesting Foyet had brought them up unprompted.

Surprise never kept him off balance for long, and Foyet leered down at him with unashamed pleasure as his hand tightened possessively on Hotch’s shoulder. Those icy eyes were victorious, smug, and Hotch took note of it. A puzzle was coming together in his mind, tidbits fitting together, the mentions of his team, the license plate, and he knew that he could figure this out. Just a little more, Foyet just had to keep talking, keep gloating, and if Hotch needed to encourage that then he would. He didn’t feel threatened, didn’t feel unsafe, and maybe he was being reckless. Maybe he was taking a risk. But Hotch knew that Foyet didn’t have the upper hand. Not enough to seriously try anything. He didn’t know that there was no one watching, no one to intervene, and as long as that remained the case, he would keep this to taunts and suggestion.

Hotch raised a brow. He could make stoicism a form of art.

He wasn’t worried.

“You sure?” Foyet said pointedly, sliding his hand from his shoulder to his neck, slow and languid, thumb flicking across the bite in a slow, teasing caress, before it slid up even further to cup his jaw. Hotch went to pull back, startled into action, unwilling to let Foyet think that he could take things this far. No matter what Hotch was trying to trick him into revealing, no matter how close he knew he was to succeeding; there was no way he was going to let him think that he could touch him so intimately. This wasn't an interrogation, wasn't like before when he'd bargained, and he wasn't going to let Foyet think he could get away with it so easily. 

That he could touch him in this way and Hotch would do _nothing_. 

“Let me go and put your hands on your head. Final warning.” Hotch spoke with the voice of someone who barely had to aim to make a headshot. He’d never outright threatened Foyet before. He did so now, grabbing Foyet’s wrist and squeezing, once, twice, the promise of worse something he didn’t need to verbalise. It was everything he'd wanted to do at the hospital, when he'd rolled up his sleeve, when he'd been laying on the floor of his apartment in a pool of his own blood. He almost _wished_ Foyet would test him.

“Hmm.” Foyet was always so confident when he thought he sensed a chink in someone’s armour, pretending to consider what he would do. It was his own form of interrogation, his own way of trying to make Hotch uncomfortable enough to reveal what he wanted, what his plan was. He stroked his thumb down the length of Hotch's cheekbone. “Ok.”

He let him go, returning his hands to his head, and smirked down at him.

“Carry on then, sweetheart.” He winked again, so completely at ease. So completely sure that he’d won. “Could play this game all _night_ if you wanted.”

It was barely anything at all. It was barely even a slip.

_Night._

The emphasis on the word wasn’t purely suggestive; there was mockery in how he’d stressed that word, boastful triumph in those eyes, a taunt in how it was barely eleven in the morning right now. Foyet’s instinct should have been to say day. 

Why hadn't he said day?

It took a moment, but clarity struck as the pieces came together; the way Foyet had mockingly said ‘unsub’, the way he’d asked how long his team had been gone, kept drawing attention to them, how he’d known that Hotch would stay behind, the way he’d wanted Hotch to ask him how he was going to escape so he could distract him, the way he’d—

“If it was too dark to see the colour of the car,” Hotch said from his knees. “how did you manage to see the license plate so clearly?”

It _might_ have been possible, but to memorise it when he could barely see? Unlikely.

Foyet didn’t quite freeze, but he did go so very still for a moment. “Damn.”

_Checkmate._

He’d caught him off guard, pushed him off balance. It was obvious enough that Hotch allowed himself a smug smirk. Foyet’s expression wasn’t pleased, those eyes narrowed, anger setting his mouth into a tense line until he smoothed it out. It was the same set of tells he’d shown at the hospital, right before he’d bit him. Hotch would need to be careful.

There was a small sigh and then, a nonchalant shrug. Foyet grinned but it was all too sharp. “Caught me.”

“Tell me what you’re hiding.” 

Hotch leant back on his heels, no longer pretending the search was his primary goal. He stayed down, stayed kneeling, because this wasn't over yet, but he glared up at Foyet with the absolute confidence of someone used to being obeyed.

Foyet looked down at him like he couldn’t quite believe he was still playing along.

“Hmm.” Foyet said, softening the edges of his anger. Trying to regain control. “You’ve surprised me again. Twice in one day, agent. That’s quite impressive.”

“You’re predictable.” Hotch said simply. “Flattery won’t get you out of this. Tell me. Now.”

“Do you like flattery?” Foyet said instead of answering. “Do you like being told just how good you are?”

“Foyet.” Hotch raised a brow and waited.

“I may have kept a few details back.” 

“Start talking.”

“How badly do you want to know?”

“Enough to ask twice.” Hotch said, unmoved by the insinuation. “How did you know?”

Foyet paused. His eyes unreadable for a moment, expression suddenly void of all humour; the anger Hotch had seen so briefly flared in those eyes, tightening the corners as they narrowed. “Don’t get up.”

Hotch had known it wouldn’t be an easy concession.

It went against every instinct he had to stay still as Foyet walked behind him, hyper-awareness trying to force him to action, but this time he didn’t flinch as he felt Foyet’s hand settle on his shoulder. Foyet wanted him to pull away—was getting petty, meaningless revenge for being caught out—and he weathered the weight of Foyet’s hand without saying a word. The grip turned tight for a moment, as if testing to see if he’d wince, but relaxed when he didn’t, sliding to the back of his neck. It felt more intimate than anything Foyet had done so far; Hotch on his knees, Foyet behind him, hand at the base of his neck, skin the only barrier between delicate vertebrae. And Foyet thought there was an audience, thought there were agents watching, waiting to intervene—

Hotch knew there wasn’t.

“I thought you’d struggle a little more.” Foyet said thoughtfully, his tone calmer. Pleased. “But you haven’t moved an inch.”

“You like it when I struggle.” 

“Mhm. I do.” Foyet paused, Hotch couldn’t see his expression. He could feel the weight of his hand, so tenderly cupping the back of his neck, and felt the very clear threat of just what Foyet could do in half a second if he so chose. "You walked in here with such impressive composure, but I could feel the tension in your shoulder. Still having physio? Taking painkillers? You've probably tried not to think about it since coming in here, but I'm guessing you're almost due a dose. You never told me what they prescribed you, Naproxen? I take it too." 

"You take a lot of medication." Hotch said instead of admitting there was any truth in what Foyet had said. "And you're stalling."

“Getting impatient?”

Hotch didn’t reply. 

Foyet let him go, walked back around, smirked down at him and Hotch knew it was because he wanted to see his reaction.

“It was dark, but not that dark.” Foyet shrugged, but there was nothing nonchalant in his eyes. “The street was well lit enough that I could see very clearly. The car was blue, by the way, but, here’s the real kicker, did you ever wonder who was driving?”

Why would that—

More of the puzzle clicked into place. The implication suddenly becoming clear. There were two unsubs. 

There were _two_ unsubs. One to subdue the target, the other to drive away.

Abduction. These kills had all been to stage an abduction. That had to be it. They’d wondered about motive, about where all that rage had truly been directed, the brutality behind killing seven men, and now Hotch had the answer. It had all been to get to one. The last victim was the real target. The rest had been to hide what they really wanted, or to practise for the real kill. He was on his feet with his phone to his ear in an instant. He called Dave. And when he didn’t answer he tried Prentiss, then Morgan, and listened as their phones rang and rang. He clamped down on his expression a moment too late; Foyet had caught the unguarded panic in his eyes, had witnessed an instinctive, emotional, reaction for the very first time.

It was probably everything he wanted.

“Not answering?” Foyet said innocently, eyes alight with a vicious, vindictive pleasure. There had always been something chilling about Foyet, something so very off, and it was more than apparent now. “Oh, you worked that out quickly, you should have seen—”

“What did you tell them?”

“That the FBI would soon be in town. What they should look for—who.” Foyet’s expression was all sly insinuation.

Hotch’s eyes flicked to the door.

How long had he wasted already? Six minutes? Eight?

“Can’t watch me and help them at the same time, can you?” Foyet taunted. “But that’s ok, kitten, go do your job. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“My team know what to do.”

“True, but they don’t know what they’re walking into, do they? And the longer you stay in this cell talking to me, the more time you waste.” Foyet found Hotch’s buttons with vicious accuracy, knowing exactly where to press.

Knowing exactly where to hurt.

"You knew I’d stay—knew I’d want to keep an eye on you myself.” Hotch said and there was anger in his voice now. He didn’t try and hide it. “This was about attacking my team.”

“So soft spoken, even in anger. You always speak so gently, sweetheart.” Foyet nodded though, his grin a little feral. “I thought they might be feeling a little left out.”

No. Hotch thought with sudden clarity. You were feeling possessive.

“What would you have done,” Hotch asked quietly. “if I hadn’t come back in?”

Foyet smiled. “Guess you’ll never know.”

But his expression was still off. There was anger there, lurking beneath the surface, and suddenly Hotch very much wanted to mock him for it. “Oh, did I ruin your little game? I know you wanted me in here. Not for this though. You think I don’t know how badly you didn’t want me to figure this out?”

“I hoped at least one of your team would be dead first.”

“I’ll make you regret going after them.”

“Will you? Hmm, what was it you said to me in the hospital?” Foyet said, vicious as always when he didn’t get his own way. “Oh yes—'you don’t have the time’. Do _you_ have the time, Aaron."

He very much didn’t.

"This isn’t over.”

It was both a threat and an annoying truth. It had been the gut feeling he was hoping was wrong. Foyet was going to escape and there was nothing he could do about it. He'd wanted him here for it though, wanted him to witness it, to use it to prove to him that there was nothing he could do to stop him. He'd wanted to make it very, very clear that nothing could prevent him from doing exactly what he wanted. He'd set this scenerio up to prove that Hotch had no power at all. And even this, even though this was a victory, it still allowed Foyet his own win. Hotch was not so arrogant to think he was the only person capable of preventing Foyet from escaping, that the cops in New York weren't good at their jobs, but he also knew there was no way Foyet was still going to be here when he got back.

“No,” Foyet’s eyes were smug. “it isn’t."

*

They’d been lucky.

The first thing he had done had been to tell Reid and JJ to go back to the hotel. If Foyet was after his team, he wanted them as far away from him as possible. The arrest itself had been tricky. Garcia had tracked Morgan's phone, confirmed the team were at the same address, and Hotch had arrived to a full-blown shoot out. The unsubs had stocked up on ammo, even if they had been foolish enough to register their car to the address they planned to carry out a murder at, and had opened fire as soon as they’d spotted Prentiss getting out of the car. It had probably saved their lives, allowed them to find cover, but that had done nothing to curb the worry Hotch had felt when he’d arrived. A few officers had come with him as back up, but Morgan had taken a hit to his vest, cracked a rib, and Hotch had very nearly been shot in the arm. They’d found the final victim alive, but it had been close. Too close. 

And by the time they returned to the station, two officers were dead, the security footage had been stolen, and Foyet was gone. 

They’d all been exhausted by the time they got back on the plane. Exhausted enough that Hotch and Rossi were currently the only ones still awake.

“This isn’t your fault, Aaron.”

And _still _Dave had the energy to read him like a book.__

____

It was a conversation he didn’t want to be having right now, one he wondered how he could avoid. “He took the footage. He didn’t want us to know how he did it.” 

__

Rossi frowned, unhappy about the deflection.

__

“You should get some rest. Figuring this out can wait for tomorrow.”

__

Hotch poured himself a can of lemonade, took a sip. He sighed as he reached for his go bag, retrieved a small bottle of painkillers. He couldn't help but think back to Foyet's smug prediction as he took a pill. “I will if you will.”

__

Rossi smirked, pleased. “Well then, guess we’re both taking a nap.”

__

If a nap postponed this conversation Hotch would make that sacrifice. Still, he found himself frowning, found himself asking. “The officers were found in Foyet’s cell. They entered willingly; it must have been some form of ruse.” 

__

“We’ll figure it out. Later.”

__

Hotch sighed. 

This was his fault, his responsibility, because the only reason Foyet paid them the slightest bit of attention was to get to him. He’d known this, profiled this, profiled the interference and threats to people close to him, and still this had happened. They’d never accept an apology from him, would say that getting caught in a shootout was part of the job, and maybe it was, but that didn’t mean they didn’t deserve one. So Hotch took another unhurried sip of his lemonade. He thought about how they hadn't been able to hold Foyet, even when they had him in custody, how this was the second time he had escaped. He thought about how deliberate this had all been. 

He remembered laying on the floor, bleeding, as Foyet leant over him and stabbed him nine times. He remembered what he had said.

I’m going to kill you.

“I know.”

__

Foyet went silent for a few days.

__

It had been a nice reprieve, allowed him time to—he didn’t want to say recover, because nothing had _happened_ , not to him anyway—but he could recalibrate. There had been questions, of course, from Strauss, but those had been easy to deflect. Rossi had taken him to dinner, tuned into his inner Italian grandma and fed him more pasta that Hotch had ever seen in his life. Then Garcia had left more cookies on his desk. Prentiss and Morgan had repeated their offers to talk but hadn’t pushed, JJ had wordlessly taken every file involving stab wounds and sexual assault, and Reid had gleefully beaten him at poker every day since they had got back. It had been nice. Confusing, to be cared about so, a little galling to think he needed looking after, but nice. He was supposed to be their team leader, even now, even with Morgan in charge, but it made him feel safer than he’d felt for a long time.

__

Protected.

__

They still didn’t know how Foyet had escaped. They still had so very little to go on with the security tapes missing. Hotch didn’t know when he would resurface and didn’t yet want to text him to find out. So, when his phone rang one morning, not five minutes before a meeting in the conference room, Hotch answered it without looking.

__

“Go ahead.” He said absently.

__

It was Foyet’s voice that greeted him. “Been a while, Aaron, how you managing without those security tapes?”

__

“And here I thought you’d leave me alone, after how easily I played you in New York.”

__

“I’ll give you that, it was a trick well done, but it wasn’t enough, was it? I still managed to escape when you had me in custody. How’s that going over with your bosses?”

__

Foyet sounded nauseatingly smug. Hotch rolled his eyes. “Are you seriously calling me so that you can gloat?”

__

He’d tried tracing Foyet’s number before. It hadn’t worked. 

__

“Not at all,” Foyet purred. “I thought I’d see if I could cheer you up. I had a realisation, you see—you never let me guess what you like. Afraid I’d be right?”

__

"I don’t care what you think, and I don’t need cheering up.”

__

“I think you do. Let’s see, what do I think you like in bed?” Foyet paused as if he really needed time to think, as if he hadn't planned out every word. “I think you want nothing more than to be good for your partner. With your wife that translated into boring but, with me, well—”

__

“I’m late for a meeting.”

__

Not yet he wasn’t. But, knowing Foyet, he soon would be.

__

“I’d get you to kneel—thanks for the visual, New York was a _gift_ —because the angle would be so much better for me to pull at your hair. I’m guessing you’d like that. There'd be bruises on your knees, your wrists, those strong thighs, your neck— huh, guess I do like choking— though I do have to wonder how you’d sound, because you’ve never had it rough, have you? You’d like it, though you’d never admit it; the thought of someone stronger than you pinning you down is a secret, guilty, pleasure. You’d be eager too, after the initial fight, I bet you get real needy in bed. So willing to please. You’d be so good for me, wouldn’t you, if I asked?”

__

Hotch should have hung up but he was frozen, mouth gone dry. There was a blush creeping across his cheeks, dusting them with scarlet, though thank god Foyet couldn’t see, because he had not really been expecting that.

He should never have answered the phone.

__

It was too early in the morning for this. He hadn’t even had his _coffee._

__

It wasn’t even the most revolting thing he’d heard from an unsub (and didn’t that say a lot about his job?) but it was the first time it had been directed at him in this way. Oh, he’s had vile things shouted at him when visiting prisons, crude invitations into cells, lascivious suggestions about cracking his infamous composure, but this was different. Hotch didn’t even know if he was unsettled. This was in line with his profile, in line with the odd sexual fixation Foyet had with him, and so it shouldn’t really have surprised him because it just meant that he was right. Hotch didn’t think he was surprised. He didn’t think he was shocked. 

“I think you vastly overestimate my level of compliance.” He said.

__

Foyet chuckled. “Oh, I don’t think I do. See? I told you you’d deny it. Have I succeeded in embarrassing you, Agent Hotchner?”

__

Hotch rolled his eyes. “I’m going to my meeting.”

__

He hung up abruptly.

__

When he arrived at the conference room the rest of the team were already seated. The eyes of four of the best profilers in the country watched him as he entered, conversation stalling, and Hotch could not help but feel like they somehow knew the exact words Foyet had said to him. JJ was frowning at him and she may not be a profiler but she wasn’t stupid. It was uncharacteristic for him to be late.

__

“Foyet?” Rossi asked dryly.

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Hotch nodded, sliding into a spare seat. “Got me before my coffee.”

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“Good thing I poured you a cup,” Rossi slid a steaming mug across the table. “though I let Reid add the sugar.”

__

Hotch was halfway through a sip and affected a grimace. His love of sugary coffee was, had been, a well-kept secret. He glanced at Reid with a raised brow, but all he got in return was a small, smug little smile and the knowledge of his secret shining in pleased hazel eyes. Hotch couldn’t help but smile back fondly, small and contained, which was the usual for him.

__

“How can you drink that?” Morgan was giving him an expression of profound disgust. His arm was in a sling, wrapped to keep his torso still. Hotch shoved down the twinge of guilt.

__

“Same way we can drink tequila,” Prentiss responded knowingly. “dead taste buds.”

__

Hotch merely took another sip of coffee, finding it easy to relax, tension uncoiling, and allowed himself another fond smile. He may be a workaholic with a serial killer stalker, but he still had his team.

__

Morgan started the briefing, casualness giving way to calm professionalism, the hint of the great unit chief Hotch knew he was going to be one day. The great unit chief he was stepping up to be right now.

__

It was going to be ok.

__

I’m going to kill you, a memory whispered in his mind.

__

Hotch reached for his phone, feeling a little bold. Foyet was still taking the bait, focusing on him, wanting to screw with him. And, yes, things had taken a slightly more explicit route recently—yes Foyet was now being even more overtly sexual, which he hadn’t really considered possible—but Hotch had started this game by giving Foyet his phone number. And he was going to win. He typed his text quickly, sent it, and went back to drinking his coffee. He listened to Morgan describe their next case.

__

Dave tapped him on the arm, mouthed “Are you ok?”

__

Hotch nodded. It felt like the truth.

*

__

_If you’re going to make assumptions about what I like in bed, you should at least buy me dinner first._

__

_maybe I will_

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part might take a while but I've planned it out. Will be called 'Like Interference' and should be about three chapters.


End file.
